


Whirlwind

by lechatnoir



Series: Blood Smiles and Alabaster Hearts [1]
Category: Nagron - Fandom, Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: Vengeance, Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 09:06:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lechatnoir/pseuds/lechatnoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whirlwind - (n) any of several relatively small masses of air rotating rapidly around a more or less vertical axis and advancing simultaneously over land or sea, as a dust devil, tornado, or waterspout. Anything resembling a whirlwind, as in violent action or destructive force.</p>
<p>A series of ficlets and drabbles; Canon, AU, and a mix of universes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

i.  
She is fierce and untamed, hair windswept and tongue fierce with the howl of her native language on her lips.

She is calm and calculating, olive skin and dark hair, the bow and arrow quickly becoming a part of her. 

When they clash it’s a mix of the sand and dirt beneath their feet and the built up tension that surrounds them.

The Romans are coming and their ranks are divided – it was bound to happen sooner or later.

When the wine enters their bodies, and they fight in merriment, it doesn’t stop the wild one from pulling her close and kissing her.  
And for once, she didn’t care – their past squabbles were now stitched up, but it’s no matter, because they have each other, and that was all that mattered.

Their moment of bliss was cut too short however, but the wild one continues to fight and breathe for her fallen comrade, sister, lover.

For Mira. 

ii.  
He is warm and safe, strong and tall, fierce yet kind.

He is delicate and swift, timid yet unafraid, small yet light as a feather.

It is strange, how they managed to cross paths and somehow ended up tangled in each other. But with the arena’s tall stands and the screams of the blood thirsty crowd behind him, the Beast of Carthage can take off his blood-splattered mask and put on the face that the boy knows and sees, the one not of a beast, but of a lover.

And he worries, because whenever Barca leaves , it may be the last time that they see each other, because Barca is a gladiator and fights in the arena while Pietros is just a mere servant, bound to the ludus to do as he’s told. But that didn’t stop them – doesn’t stop them, from exchanging a few more touches and a kiss or two, because they are alive and well, and the birds are there , a comfort of sorts to them. 

So when one leaves, the other follows, and the birds follow them in the skies above. 

iii.

It’s not so much that Agron hates rainy days, it’s more so the fact that he’s reminded of hospitals and of Duro, and the fact that he’s not there with him anymore.  
No, it’s not that he hates them; it’s more like he’s tired of the memories that resurface and that throw him into a alcoholic stupor. But that was before he met Nasir, before he found someone to love and protect.

He doesn’t mind rainy days anymore, not when he’s greeted with a cup of coffee and a knowing nod, not when he gets sappy and tired and just wants someone to hold him – and Nasir doesn’t mind because he knows the pain of losing someone, and it’s the least that he could do in return.

So as the rain hits their windows, the two of them curl up underneath their large duvet cover, slowly passing by the time with soft words and gentle touches because quite frankly, the world was a bit too loud and they needed each other for once. 

iv.  
Why and how he was attracted to her, he didn’t know. She was smart, he’d give her that, and she wasn’t weak, but she wasn’t exactly the most fiercest when it came to attitude. He was the unruly one, the wild one, the one who got into fights and who got hurt multiple times because he didn’t think before he spoke, or some shit like that. 

But if she didn’t care and didn’t mind taking care of him, then maybe he could brush up his act and get it together, just for once?  
Because she was everything he wasn’t, and she was far too good for him, but she didn’t seem to care that he wasn’t some posh businessman or something along those lines – he was just a street rat, and she didn’t seem to care.

“You got into another fight didn’t you, Crixus?”

“Yeah, sorry bout that, I know you hate it when I do but the—“

Alright so maybe it was because she was a doctor and she had this thing where she managed to take away and clean up even the most nastiest of his cuts and bruises, and then she’d kiss him and it would be as if time stood still or something of that cliché sort of thing, but he didn’t care because she was his and he was hers and quite frankly, maybe that was the reason why he got into fights all the time, because then she’d have to deal with him and he couldn’t help falling in love with her even more with each passing day.


	2. Mechanisms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of 'Whirlwind' - with the howls of the mountain winds and the sounds of the rain dripping against the flesh and bone of those who were fallen, stars shimmering over the lands and the smell of smoke in the early morning air.

i.

Sometimes, it was a symphony of growls and yells, of blood spilling and laughter as they attacked the Romans. It was months of hard work, of rekindling dead flames that they thought they would never see in each other's eyes, see the life and determination grow in the eyes of their ever-swelling ranks. They had a system, it was not laid out in writing, nor spoken in words, rather it was based on the common bonds and the broken chains that everyone wore at one point or another. They had grown, from a bunch of rebellious gladiators and house slaves to a army that would match the strength of the Titans , or even the gods.

(That would be something that they told themselves in jest, laughing and drinking until the open wounds would start to close up, so that they would start to forget the horrors of the day, that the winter was approaching them like a wild beast that could not be tamed. ) 

They fought, and trained, and matched each other, blow for blow. They were one unit, united because of one man and his ideas, tied together because of the hatred and abuse that the Romans had tossed upon them.

Their hopes were crushed, dreams were shattered, comrades fallen all because of a desperation that took hold and never let go, of the never-ending battle of freedom and salvation.

of life and death - they were simply pawns in the game of the universe, but that was all.

They had to breath and fight, tooth and claw to survive.

Sometimes, they felt like giving up, but then it took the sacrifice of one to rekindle that flame of hatred and hope, that swirled and took them like the rapid inferno that was their desire to live.

ii.  
He remembers coming home to the sound of a piano playing, and seeing her there, illuminated in the glow of the sunlight – well, he would’ve killed anyone who had said that he would have fallen in love with her all over again as if he was a teenage boy in that moment.

It was hard, working jobs – it was never stable, but Spartacus, Agron and Gannicus managed to keep Crixus from losing his patience with all of the new interns at the hospital. If he could kill a person every time one of the new interns did something to piss him off, he was pretty sure that the morgue wouldn’t have enough room to hold all of the bodies. 

So when he finally comes home to Naevia, who was as graceful and fierce as a lioness who took none of his crap whenever he was in a awfully pissed off mood – he sighs and relaxes and bathes in the calm noise that floods their little apartment of three years living together .

 

He falls asleep to the sound of her playing the piano and her laughter, brighter then the sun itself.

Sometimes he unintentionally drifts off to sleep, tired and wary and not one to move at all, and Naevia only smiles and covers her fierce lion up with a blanket or duvet cover and makes herself a cup of tea and grabs a book to read while he sleeps, because sixteen hour shifts, five days in a row is enough to make anyone drop dead once free of the task.   
Sometimes they argue – words sharps as knifes and eyes set to kill, but somehow they fall into a familiar dance – a pattern of sorts, one of two sides of a coin; 

He was the storm, raging and furious, and she was the wind that howled and ran free across the mountain tops.  
They danced around each other, enveloped each other. They were two jagged stones, each roughened and sharp, with edges that were hard enough to scrap the skin off of ones limbs, but they were together, and while on their own they were infuriating and uncontrollable, together they were unstoppable.  
They were two halves of a whole.

Funny, how life worked out that way. 

iii.

There were times where she felt like a wolf, howling, prowling.

Sometimes she dreamed she was a wolf, and it was easy, to sleep and to slip into the skin of the wolf.   
Almost as if she was born a wolf.

She would rip the bones from the flesh of men, would kill the Roman fucks who tore through her people as if they were shit, as if they were maggots and the Romans were the boots that were sent out to get rid of said maggots. 

She wanted to kill them all, wanted to get revenge for everyone who had fallen, who had loved too much, who had loved too little, who had harmed her sisters and her brothers, her wolves – her pack. 

At first, she had hated the rebels, thought them to be the same as the Roman fucks who had taken her and her brothers captive, chained and tossed into a cage because they were too afraid of facing her properly, hand to hand, teeth to teeth.

She would have clawed her way out if she had to, but then the rebels came and they liberated them.

It was chaos, to say the least. Chaos, anger, tension.

Blood.

That’s what she wanted, blood. Roman blood to be specific, so that she could climb on top of all of the Roman fucks that she had slaughtered in retribution and laugh at the empire so grand, so vast that they had to send a army to defeat her.

Yet they never could, not her.

She was Saxa, a wolf in her own right.   
She took no one, cared for no one, fucked anyone whom she deemed worthy and killed with her hands.

She was a seductress and a warrior, and no one was there to stop her.

She had to thank the rebels for teaching her that – they were her family now, her brothers and sisters whom she had sworn to protect.

She was their she-wolf, she would protect her pack.

She would die snarling and fighting each and every Roman fuck who thought they would beat them – beat the rebels that flocked to Spartacus’ side.

She would laugh and spit blood in their eyes and they would howl in rage and agony as she ripped them to shreds.

No one would hurt her family.

They had already taken too many – Mira, Oenomaus – countless others. 

She would not let them take anyone else.

She would die trying before they did. 

iv.   
Perhaps all it took was a simple cup of wine and a warm body to pass the night away, or a helpful friend who would lend their ear to listen to your troubles.

Saxa didn’t know that – there was the language barrier, of broken German and Latin and the Common Tongue, and quite frankly, it sounded like sand and rocks scratching against glass in her throat. 

She thought that she would have gone insane, in those early days, had there not been any fighting to take place, any training to undergo.

She would prove herself better than any man, at least, any man who had the nerve to spit in her face. She’d tackle and claw at him, tear him apart with words as sharp as knives and laughter as cold as ice, as the blood would course through her veins and she would see red – it was moments like these that she felt alive.

Felt on top of the world, not bound to a stupid collar that dragged her weary body downwards.

It wasn’t until Spartacus had ordered that each and every slave collar be destroyed that she felt like she could soar above the skies, be like the foolish boy who flew too close to the sun and fell to his death.

She laughed, and wine was poured all around – soon, the tension and the language barriers slipped away, and they had a bond forged, something stronger then metal and words of cruelty and mannerisms that were foreign to her and her people.

She had entered their rebel camp with her barriers raised, hissing and attacking at anyone who got too close because she was afraid. 

(she will never admit that) 

She had grown, forming friendships based on swords clashing and wine drinking and lips smashing together.

(Mira was sweet, earthen and firm when they had met together, and quite frankly perhaps it wasn't just the wine that made Saxa kiss her that day, never the less, she didn't regret it) 

(Gannicus was muscle and nerves, coiled together and wound up like a spring about to burst, jovial and laughing when the wine entered his head. That didn't matter to her, he treated her as a equal, she would treat him the same way.)

v.

Sometimes it's the way the light hits his eyes, make them seem to be green as the mountain grass, or grey as the stormy sky.

Sometimes it's molten gold, specks of amber mixed with auburn and brown.

Ivory and steel, blood and heat.  
It doesn't really matter, not really.  
Not when they're in a war, and it's a countdown of when they'll see each other next - if they can or will see each other - of how many Romans they'll take down and still emerge the victors.

It's hurried kisses and sweet nothings whispered into each others ears, harsh fucks against the wall because it's been weeks since they've seen each other and god, they had worried and yearned and sometimes they wished that this war was over so that they could retire and live their lives out quietly in the wilderness.

Sometimes, it's a simple clasp on the shoulder, a whispered 'I love you ' and a knowing glance tossed each other's way.

It was odd, and they didn't always work well together, but they loved each other, and that was that.  
That was more than enough for Nasir and Agron, at least, for now.

They had a war to win, a life to live, each other to love.


	3. Right as Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the Whirlwind!drabbles. It was right as rain when the rebellion rose, with the sound of horses neighing and an old friend greeting them all. with the stars gleaming and crying from above and the roar of war cries and laughter smothering the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small spoiler from War of the Damned ep 1.   
> It's really small , I promise ;A;!!

i.  
It’s the smell of smoke and snow pulled together with the sounds and smell of swords clashing, blood dripping, bodies rotting. 

It is in all actuality, what hell would be like if hell was to exist on earth. That’s what it was. 

What was worse was the fact that they didn’t know where their loved one was – it was a flurry of bodies and flaming rocks being tossed ahead to try and destroy the Roman fucks. It was the sound of yells and snarls and horses neighing, of swords and shields clashing.  
One by one, they fell.  
One by one they were crucified, nailed upon wooden beams with the nails digging into their flesh, their screams and howls roaring through Rome. They would bite and snarl and fight their way even when their breaths grew labored and it was too much work to breath and keep breathing as gravity would lull them to sleep while crushing them in her arms.

They’d lost but they had won all the same. 

ii.

It was the roar of hooves and the sound of horses neighing, shields crashing and blood flowing. They had circled her, surrounded her because she was a easy target – a broken little thing, a woman.

A slave.

(Absent slave collar but that doesn’t matter – she knows they know, and she’s silent as the water) 

 

They surrounded her, Roman fucks who thought that they would get the better of her, of a little, pathetic little weakling woman who can’t defend herself, who was just digging a hole into the dried up grass, something to show that winter was coming, that everything was in ruins now.

They had stared her down, high on top of their steeds, swords drawn as they stooped down to her level, having to touch the filthy ground which she walked upon.

(They had no regard, for slaves, for life in general because they were Romans, they towered above all others) 

So when the question was asked, she was silent.

And when he asked again – frustrated, sword poised to strike like the red serpent that rears its head every so often, thirsty for blood but too cowardly to strict when the iron is hot – she smiles a welcomes the name of an old friend to her lips. 

A friend whom she had seen embrace countless others – friends, sisters in arms, brothers, protectors, saviors, villains, even the Roman fucks themselves.

She gives them one answer, and a sword to silence their screams.

(It’s an old friend, and he’s coming down to haunt your nightmares little soldier) 

“Who is with you?”

(Death. )

iii. 

It was a girl’s night out. That’s what they’d planned and that’s what they’d do. Mira, Saxa, Naevia.   
They’d go out, get drunk, party and then head on home together for a sleep over. And everything was going to go well. They had agreed to call each other up by six, and meet by the pub at 6:30 PM .

And although it was just a girl’s night out, Naevia couldn’t decide what to wear. She didn’t want to wear something scratchy or too thick – it was summer after all – and she didn’t want to stand out too much either. Unfortunately before she could decide what she should wear, a pair of arms circled her waist and she felt a familiar pair of lips brush against her neck. “Long day at work?” she muttered, leaning back against her boyfriend of three years – Crixus – and smiled at him when he nodded and that was that. 

They had met at a café – she was working as a barista and he was a technician who had a habit of getting drunk and getting into brawls every so often at the pub, but who would always stop by during his lunch breaks for a cinnamon muffin and a black coffee, with a dash of milk and a spoonful of sugar.  
They had started talking, bonded over similar books and movies, and then had eventually gone out on a few dates.

And then three years later that’s where they were, fiery and explosive and yet calm and gentle.

They were a storm in itself. 

So when she had gotten too drunk – despite Mira and Saxa telling her that they’d walk her back to her apartment, she had refused – she had stumbled along the streets, singing to herself as the rain started to fall down from the pitch black sky.

It was warm, a spring day.

But it was that day that she found herself in an alleyway, shoved against a cold , damp wall of an old building, with hands clawing and prying at her, touching her and making her want to vomit.

It wasn’t until her throat was hoarse from screaming that she heard the sound of a familiar voice – a comforting voice, loud and booming yet soft as velvet as well.

She was shaking when Crixus held her, and together they fell together, onto the wet asphalt. 

He was her anchor (but she was far gone to remember that).

(She would scrub herself until her skin would turn red, boil herself until she couldn’t feel anything anymore. ) 

Eventually she would be able to stand on her own two feet.

For now, she was content in simply knowing that she had someone to hang on to, cling to when the nightmares would rear up and devour her whole.

Sometimes she wondered why she had even thought about getting that drunk.

Sometimes she remembered the spring, and the smell of burnt paper and plastic.

(And the sounds of screams that echoed into the night of a cold rainy day) 

Sometimes she's greeted with warmth and the smell of french vanilla coffee, and she smiles , warm and content with a fire that has long been extinguished but has now found its way to her eyes again.

iv.  
She wonders why she ever thought of leaving home – going off on her own adventure, seeing the world. She would have left a mother and a father behind, but she was not cut out for the life of a simple woman.

She was too wild, a lioness and a wolf all mixed into one. 

She was untamable – there had been one, once, but he had died and there was no need on dwelling on lost causes, on phantom names and meaningless gestures  
.  
(in a way, life was a game to her) 

She was chained up and tossed onto a ship filled with her people, their shared tongue rapid fire and poison all rolled into one as they laughed and mocked the Roman fucks who sent them on their way to hell.

They’d give them hell, even chained up and locked up in a cage, forced to stay in the confines of a ship that smelled of rotten flesh and bone.

(When the rebels came and struck down her chains, she had roared and laughed and fucked with joy and rage and a bit of sadness, for never will she feel her mother’s warm gaze upon her, or her father’s voice, loud and booming as he taught her how to hunt) 

She had fought and lived.

And perhaps that’s why she sought out Gannicus’ comforts, nothing like the touch and fuck of one who enjoyed life’s rewards and good wine to bear as well. 

She had her hands deep in blood, her teeth gorged on the screams of Romans.

She was laughing in the face of death itself, dancing with death, cheering death on as it swooped in to claim the lives of the Romans who had stolen her pack and had hurt those who she held dear.

(She would not admit that she had loved each and every single one of the rebel jerks that she was with all the time. But they knew it, and she knows that they know it.)

Words are not her strong point, they’re ragged and course against her tongue, though she has gotten better at speaking – actions are her strong point.

Actions allow her to drink and fuck around and sing to the fucking heavens and to make herself known.

Her actions spoke louder than her hisses and snarls ever could.

vi.

They had collapsed into a pile of limbs, one afternoon.

It was a lazy day, one where the highlight would be trying to run across the streets in nothing but shorts and getting themselves completely soaked to the bone from the fire hydrants that had been turned on to try and combat the heat.

Laughing , they had gotten too drunk, not caring about anything in the world, or anyone else besides each other’s lips and hands that had mapped out their desired pathways along the other’s body.

It was a quick go here, a run to the ice cream parlor that still served root beer floats, with all the ice cream flavors that you could ever hope to imagine. 

(They had gotten caramel and pistachio and chocolate and a cone and a orange creamsicle and all of this ice cream could have given them a brain freeze but it didn’t because they had been more wrapped up in trying to learn how they fit with each other and how they worked together and oh , a kiss there would be lovely, darling ) 

It was summer and they were drunk off of their asses, singing songs to each other and kissing each other – necks, lips, ears. 

It didn’t matter where exactly.

It was the hazy days of bliss and the sound of car engines roaring , of roadmaps being tacked onto a car, snacks and long-term food being hauled up into their trunk and Agron hitting the gas pedal to get started on Nasir’s last minute road trip that he decided was going to be a great idea, considering it was hot as fuck and they were certainly not completely drunk off of their asses. 

Nope.

They were kids , at heart. And they had loved each other the moment they had set eyes upon one another. 

(It was sort of inevitable.)

Still, he doesn’t know why they’re going on a road trip, or why they have more alcohol then they would ever need to go on a weekend road trip and go across the country because that’s what boyfriends did , right?

Go on spontaneous road trips and be ridiculously cheesy and have sex in a cornfield somewhere out west under the stars and think that for once, you can deal with this sort of spontaneous, quiet life. 

It’s the sound of a ice cream parlor shop door opening, bell jingling and the kisses of two boys who were ridiculously and hopelessly in love, and you’d think that this sort of happiness was written up in the sappy teen romance books.

Sometimes it was. Sometimes it was real.

You never quite know.

(But they had loved each other, and will love each other because sometimes they wished that the night would never end and they’d shower each other with kisses and words soft as a sparrow’s wing but that was for the dreamers and they were just two kids who were hopelessly in love with each other that they didn’t notice how their worlds came crashing down until they had drowned in the remains of them.)


End file.
